Seanan McGuire - Ashes of Honor

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Frowning a little, I pulled out my phone and flipped it open. “Hello?” My eyes widened. “Bridget, calm down. What did you say?”

Chelsea’s mother took a shaky breath, and repeated, “Chelsea just called me. She said she was at a pay phone in Seattle .”

Oh, oak and ash. “Is she still there? I can go pick her up.” Etienne would be able to take me. Even if that was normally farther than he could jump, he’d find a way to take me, for her.

“No. She said she couldn’t control where she was going anymore. People took her!”

“From the phone in Seattle?”

“No! On her way home! Are you listening to me?!”

I took a breath, counting to five before I said, “Yes, Bridget, I’m listening. I just need to know exactly what’s going on. Did she say anything about the people who took her?”

“That they want to open a door! A door where? What’s going on?” Her voice, never calm, was beginning to take on an edge of genuine hysteria. “ Where is my daughter?! ”

“I don’t know. But we’re going to find her. We—”

“Why aren’t you finding her?! ”

“We’re doing the best that we can. Bridget, I just need you to stay calm, and—” I was talking to the air. Bridget had hung up.

I snapped the phone closed, looking toward Quentin. “We have to go.”

“Yes, you do,” said the Luidaeg. “And Toby?”

“Yeah?”

She looked at me grimly, her pupils expanding until her eyes were black from side to side. “Hurry.”

THE LUIDAEG’S DON’T-LOOK-HERE POPPED as we approached the car, leaving the scent of brackish water hanging in the air. We were short on time. I knew that; Quentin knew that; we still took a moment to stand there and look at the car, trying to wrap our minds around it.

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected the Luidaeg to drive; it was a toss-up between something battered and semi-destroyed or something utterly classic, Christine as driven by a badass water demon from the dawn of human history. I was sure of one thing: I wasn’t expecting a green Honda Civic. It looked like something a soccer mom would drive. It looked like something I would have been driving, if I’d stayed part of Gillian’s life long enough to wind up taking her to dance recitals and school plays.

“Do you know how to drive this?” Quentin asked. “It looks, you know. Antique.”

“Quentin, you didn’t own a pair of pants with a zipper until you were fifteen. You didn’t have reliable access to cable television until you moved in with me. Your wardrobe consists mostly of tunics.” I unlocked the car as I spoke. Giving Quentin a hard time might be good for both of us, emotionally, but it wasn’t going to get us to Berkeley any faster. That was where we were most likely to find the doors we needed to attune the Luidaeg’s charms.

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t call other people’s cars antique?”

“I’m saying that no one who grew up in a live-action Tolkien novel gets to call cars from 1998 antiques.”

Quentin smirked and got into the car. “Yes, sir.”

“Damn straight.”

Some of the influence of the Luidaeg’s don’t-look-here spell must have been clinging to the car; there was plenty of traffic, but it got out of our way with an ease that was frankly eerie. Quentin played with the radio while I drove. For some reason, it didn’t get anything but a Canadian folk music channel and three stations playing hits from the 1940s and 1950s. I expected him to complain. Instead, he announced, “I love this song!” as the band on the Canadian station started singing enthusiastically about boats, and proceeded to sing along.

“Weirdo,” I said.

“Canadian,” he replied. His stomach growled. “ Hungry Canadian. We still haven’t eaten.”

“Believe me, I noticed. I’m the one who had to bleed for the Luidaeg’s latest special project, remember? As soon as we get these things attuned to Chelsea, we’ll hit the nearest drive-through and buy a sack of breakfast sandwiches. Okay?” Breakfast sandwiches and coffee . I wasn’t going to do anyone any good if I fell asleep at the wheel and drove into a tree.

“Okay,” said Quentin.

I tossed him my cell phone. “Here. Call Walther. Let him know we’re coming back to Berkeley. We don’t need a picture anymore, but if he can mix anything that would work as a temporary, nonharmful magic suppressant, I’d love to hear about it.” If we could shut down Chelsea’s ability to open doors for a little while, maybe we’d be able to catch her before she gated herself away. And if whoever took her was on her trail, well…

I felt sorry for them. I was cranky, I was tired, I needed caffeine, and people who kidnap teenage girls piss me off. Call it my way of working through residual anger issues from when Raysel grabbed my daughter, but if I got my hands on Chelsea’s kidnappers, they were going to learn that I don’t play nicely with people who mess with kids.

Quentin dialed Walther’s number and must have reached him, because a few seconds later, he identified himself and started explaining the situation. I tuned him out, focusing on the road instead of my squire. I knew I didn’t need to monitor him. If you’d asked me three years ago whether I would trust my status updates to a teenage boy, I would have looked at you as if you were insane. These days, I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

Besides, we were crossing the Bay Bridge, and I’ve always been a little paranoid about that particular stretch of road. Something about being on a giant iron structure suspended over the water rubs me the wrong way.

“Toby?” Quentin lowered the phone. “Walther wants to know how long the power damper needs to work.”

“I don’t know. Long enough for us to keep Chelsea from turning the fabric of the universe into pudding. An hour? A day?”

“Got it.” He relayed this to Walther. There was a pause before he lowered the phone again, and said, “He can do a year if you don’t want it to hurt her. That’s sort of the minimum. Anything that doesn’t last as long will probably mess her up pretty bad at the same time.”

A year was a long time to strip someone of her magic. On the other hand…if Chelsea decided to become human, she wasn’t going to have magic anymore, no matter what. If she chose to become fae, a year wouldn’t matter one way or the other. “Tell him a year should be fine. Anything that lets us get close enough to her to make this stop.”

“Okay.” He raised the phone again, and I returned my attention to the road. My cell phone landed in my lap less than a minute later. It bounced once before wedging itself between my knees. “He’s on it,” said Quentin.

“Good. Did he say when we could pick it up?”

“No. He just laughed and hung up on me.”

I nodded. “Even better.” Working with me has had the unexpected side effect of teaching Walther that sometimes you not only don’t get sufficient time to prepare, you don’t get any time at all. I liked to tell myself it was good for him. It’s too easy for purebloods to get complacent about time management—when you have forever, what’s the point of worrying about whether or not you’ll get your library books back on time?

“You’re terribly hard on your allies,” commented Tybalt’s voice from the backseat. “It’s a wonder any of us remain willing to stand by you for more than a season of abuses.”

I yelped, involuntarily jerking the wheel to the side. We swerved across two lanes of traffic, causing the cars around me to hit their brakes and horns practically in unison. Quentin shouted something I couldn’t make out over the mingled cacophony of the horns and my own steady swearing. I risked a glance in his direction. He was hanging onto the car’s “oh shit” handle so hard that his knuckles were white.